Episode 23: Drive by Shooting
by heisey
Summary: The detectives of the 8th Precinct investigate a drive by shooting that looks like random gang violence, but is it?
1. Chapter 1

**Episode 23: "Drive-by Shooting"**

_Day One_

_Scene One_

"Mornin', Jim," Karen said as Jim and Hank walked into the squad room. When Jim reached his desk and took off his coat, she took one look at his mismatched outfit and almost choked on her coffee. Lt. Fisk, who had followed Jim into the squad room, did a double-take. He motioned to Karen, Marty and Tom to come into his office. They followed him, moving as quietly as they could.

"OK, guys," Fisk began after Marty closed the door, "who's gonna tell him?"

The three detectives looked at each other. Finally Marty spoke up. "Why do we need to tell him?" he asked. "He'll never know the difference."

"C'mon, Marty, he's sure to find out or figure it out eventually. Then he'll know we didn't tell him. We gotta tell him," Karen asserted.

"It's not in my job description," Fisk said firmly. He looked at Karen. "He's your partner." Karen groaned and rolled her eyes.

"We'll make ourselves scarce," Tom told her, with a glance at Marty, who nodded his agreement.

When she was back at her desk and Tom and Marty had disappeared into the locker room, Karen rolled her chair closer to Jim's desk. "Uh, Jim – " she began.

"Yeah?" Jim asked, tilting his head quizzically.

"I hate to say this, but . . . ."

"C'mon, Karen, I know something's going on. Just spit it out."

"OK, it's about what you're wearing. Uh, your jacket and tie don't . . . well, they don't match the rest."

Jim nodded, as if to himself, but didn't say anything. Karen gave him a worried look, hoping she hadn't embarrassed him. "I look like a blind guy picked out my clothes – is that what you're telling me?" he finally asked, with a grin.

"Uh, yeah," she agreed, relieved. "Christie didn't say anything?" she asked.

"She had to leave for work early," Jim explained. "I must've misread the tags," he added, with a bemused expression. "Or maybe I just forgot." He shrugged, then asked, with a little grin, "So what am I wearing?"

"Black pants and a blue shirt, with a brown and red striped tie and a brown jacket."

"Oh." He fingered his tie thoughtfully.

Karen noticed Tom and Marty returning and gave them a thumbs-up. When Jim heard them at their desks, he stood up, holding his hands out at his sides. "What d'you think, guys?" he asked, deadpan. "My wife says it's the latest thing, you know, a fashion statement." Karen looked away from Tom and Marty and smothered a laugh.

"I dunno, Jim," Tom said. "It's kinda – different. But I guess she'd know, wouldn't she?"

"Jeez, Tom," Marty told him, "get a clue. She didn't really say that, right, Jim?"

"Right," Jim confirmed with a smile. Marty pointed at Tom and gave him a knowing look, while Karen smiled to herself.

Jim sat back down at his desk and opened his laptop. While he waited for the computer to boot up, he reflected on what had just happened. He knew he'd made the right call, playing his clothing mix-up for laughs, and he had to admit it _was_ funny. When he first went back on the job, he'd tried to downplay his blindness, hoping his co-workers would eventually come to think of him as just another detective, and not "the blind detective." He knew now that he'd been kidding himself. That wasn't going to happen – especially not today. His mismatched clothes would remind everyone, all day long, that he couldn't see.

The clothing mix-up wasn't the only thing on Jim's mind. Ever since those skinheads grabbed him off the street three nights ago, Christie had been distant. Last night was no exception. She barely spoke to him all evening, and when he joined her in bed, she turned away from him and wouldn't accept a good-night kiss. In the morning, she was already up when the alarm went off. He heard her moving around the apartment, but she didn't speak to him and seemed to be avoiding him. When he came out of the bathroom after shaving, she told him she had to be at work early and rushed out of the apartment. He heard the hasty tapping of her footsteps and the front door closing, and she was gone. He knew what was bothering her, but he couldn't do what she thought she wanted him to do. And he didn't understand why she was shutting him out. It reminded him of how she had behaved toward him after learning of his affair. With a resigned sigh, he relegated his worries about Christie to the back of his mind and reached for his earpiece. There was nothing he could do about it until he got home tonight.

Fisk hung up his phone and came out of his office. "Who's up?" he asked.

"I am," Marty replied.

"We got a DOA," Fisk told him, "Rivington Street, near Ludlow. Looks like it may be a drive-by."

Marty groaned as he took a slip of paper from Fisk's hand.

"Hit it," the lieutenant ordered.

_Scene Two_

From the driver's seat, Karen glanced over at Jim. She wasn't sure she should say anything. Finally she spoke up, hesitantly. "I hope you don't mind, I mean, me telling you about – you know."

"How else would I know?"

"I just thought – you know, maybe you'd rather not know."

"It doesn't bother _me,_" Jim told her dryly. "I don't have to look at myself."

"OK." Karen dropped the subject, and they rode in silence until she stopped the car at the perimeter. "We're here."

Jim took her arm, and they ducked under the crime scene tape to join Marty, Tom, and the patrol sergeant, standing next to the DOA on the sidewalk.

"What've we got?" Karen asked them.

"White male, multiple gunshot wounds," the sergeant summarized. "Happened around eight this morning, maybe a few minutes before. Neighbors saw a black SUV and heard male voices shouting "Rivington" just before the shots. No one got a good look at the shooter, or if they did, they're too scared to say so. ID in the victim's wallet says he's Paul Glover, lives over on Orchard. There's also an employee ID from Downtown Mercy Medical Center – apparently he's a nurse there. Crime scene's on the way."

"We need to start a canvass, see if anyone saw or heard anything," Karen said.

"OK," Marty agreed. "We'll wait until crime scene gets here and get them started, then canvass this side of the street."

"We'll take the other side," Karen said. Jim took her arm, and they headed across the street.

_Scene Three _

"What've you got so far?" Fisk asked, perched on the desk opposite Jim's.

"Crime scene found a couple of casings, probably nine millimeters," Marty replied, adding, "but if it's gang-related, there's not much chance of finding the gun to match them to."

"Yeah," Fisk agreed. "What about the canvass?"

Tom shook his head. "Not much, boss. Most of the neighbors claimed they didn't see or hear anything. More likely, they know it's a gang shooting, and they're just too scared to talk."

"Did you get anything?" Fisk asked, with a frustrated frown.

"We found one lady whose apartment is right above where the victim was found – Elena Rios. She's one of the ones who called it in. She says she didn't see the actual shooting, just heard some guys yelling 'Rivington,' then the shots right after. When she looked out her window, she saw the DOA lying on the sidewalk. She only saw one car on the street, a black SUV, driving away. It was already too far away for her to see the rear plate."

Karen spoke up. "A woman who lives across the street – " she consulted her notebook " – a Mildred Tanner – told us she saw a black SUV just before the shots. She said it was going real slow and looked like it was following the victim. There wasn't anyone else on the street. It didn't look right, so she kept watching. Just before the shots were fired, she saw an arm come out of the rear passenger window – it looked like someone was pointing at the victim. Then the SUV slowed down some more, and she heard men yelling – she said she couldn't make out any words, but it sounded like several men's voices – then she saw the gun sticking out of the front passenger window and heard the shots."

"Did she give you any descriptions of anyone in the vehicle?" Fisk asked.

"No," Karen replied, "she was looking down from the fourth floor. All she could see was the hand of the person who pointed out the victim, she said it looked dark-skinned. The shooter was wearing a jacket and gloves, so she couldn't see his skin color."

"You think the Rivington Street gang did the shooting?" Fisk asked.

"Yeah," Marty answered, "the location is right in the middle of their territory."

"What about the DOA? Any connection to the gang?" the lieutenant asked.

Jim shook his head, then continued. "He's been definitely ID'd as Paul Glover, 37 years old. He worked as a registered nurse on the orthopedic floor at Downtown Mercy since moving here from Chicago about two years ago. No local family. No record. No known gang affiliation. His supervisor said he worked a twelve-hour shift overnight, got off a little after 7:00 this morning, so he must have been on his way home. She doesn't know of any motive for the shooting, said he was well-liked, a good nurse, very patient-oriented."

"Damn," Fisk commented, frowning, "another random gang drive-by."

"I've been thinking – " Jim began.

"There's something new," Marty quipped.

Jim ignored him and continued. " – about the DOA. What if it wasn't random?"

"C'mon, Jim," Marty protested, "it's gotta be random, just claiming their territory. The guy has no record, no connection to any of Rivington's rivals, nothing that would give them any reason to target him."

"Nothing we know of," Jim pointed out.

"What do you mean?" Karen asked.

"It just means we don't know of anything. It doesn't mean there isn't anything," Jim explained.

"So what are you suggesting?" Fisk asked.

"The witness across the street said the SUV seemed to be following him, and someone in the vehicle pointed at him right before the shots. So maybe he wasn't a random target. I think we should take a closer look at Mr. Glover."

"What do you want to do?" Tom asked.

"For starters, let's take a look at his apartment."

_Scene Four_

"There's nothing here," Marty groused as he went through Glover's desk. "You know, it sure would be nice if Dunbar came up with a bright idea once in a while that didn't involve the rest of us doing all the work."

"Marty, that's – " Karen began, glaring at him from across the living room.

Tom stepped out of the kitchen and interrupted her. "C'mon, man. You think Jim wouldn't help us search if he could?"

"I know, I know," Marty conceded, "he would if he could. But he _can't _– that's my point."

"And whose fault is that?" Karen demanded, then answered her own question. "It sure as hell isn't Jim's."

"I'm not blaming him for being blind – " Marty began.

Karen interrupted him, "Oh, yeah? Sure sounds like it to me."

" – I just get a little tired of doing the legwork when he comes up with one of his brain waves."

"You want him to stop clearing cases?" Tom asked.

"No, of course not," Marty retorted, "I'm just sayin', it's weird, you know, the way he just sits there at his desk, staring at nothing like he does, and then he comes up with this stuff. I wonder if he did that before – you know, when he could see."

"So ask him," Tom challenged him.

"You're kidding, right? I'd just get one of those not-looking looks of his."

"Jesus, Marty, get over it," Karen told him. She gave him an exasperated look, then went into Glover's bedroom to continue the search.

"Guys," she called out a few minutes later, "come here, I got something."

When Marty and Tom entered the bedroom, Karen was kneeling on the floor next to a large plastic bin. Its cover was next to it on the floor. In it were bottles and plastic bags full of pills. "This," she said, gesturing toward the bin, "was under the bed."

Tom whistled, then muttered, "Holy shit."

"It's a fucking pharmacy," Marty added.

"Yeah," Karen agreed, "maybe we just found a motive." She pulled out her phone to call Jim.

_Scene Five_

Jim hung up the phone and headed for Fisk's office.

"We got something, boss," he said, standing in the doorway.

Fisk looked up from his computer. "What's that?" he asked.

"Karen found – she called it 'a pharmacy' – under Glover's bed. They're calling in the evidence techs to inventory it, but it looks like it's mostly prescription drugs, Oxycontin, Vicodin, Klonopin, that kind of stuff."

"Jesus," Fisk muttered. "Where'd he get the stuff – the hospital?"

"Probably. He would have had access to all of those drugs there. And they'd be worth a lot on the street."

"You're thinking he was in competition with Rivington?"

Jim nodded. "Yeah. And I bet it got him killed."

"Makes sense," Fisk agreed, "but it's only a theory unless we can get something to back it up."

"I know. I thought I'd give Sonny a call, see if he's heard anything on the street about Rivington taking out a competitor."

"Do it," Fisk ordered. "Then you might as well head home, when you've finished up your fives."

"Thanks, boss."

"See you tomorrow."

"Yeah. Good night," Jim said, then headed back to his desk.

_Scene Six_

After dinner, Jim stopped Christie as she headed for the bedroom. "Where're you going?" he asked.

"To do some reading," she answered.

"That can wait," he told her firmly, taking her by the arm and propelling her toward the couch. When they were sitting side by side, he turned toward Christie, a worried expression on his face. "We need to talk," he said.

"What's the point?" she asked bitterly.

"Christie – " he chided her.

"All right," she said, sighing resignedly. "Just say what you need to say."

"Are you still mad at me?"

"I'm not mad at you, Jimmy – not really. It's just the whole – situation."

"What do you mean?"

She looked down for a moment before answering him. "I thought I could handle it – I thought I _was_ handling it. But while you were missing the other night, it all came back to me. I was back at the hospital on the day you were shot – " She broke off, taking a deep breath to steady herself before continuing. " – waiting, not knowing if you were going to live or die. I just can't – " Her voice trembled. "I can't stand here and watch you walk out the door every morning, knowing what could happen."

"Do you think I don't know what can happen?" Jim asked quietly, seeming to look past her.

Shaken, Christie stared at her husband. As she focused on his sightless gaze, the full impact of his words sank in. "Oh, God, Jimmy, I'm sorry," she whispered. "I – we've finally found each other again, and then I thought I'd lost you, all over again. . . and I know it's going to happen again – I just don't know when. I don't think I can live with that."

"But no one's ever completely safe – you told me that yourself," Jim reminded her.

"Yes, I know, but . . . ."

"Do you remember Ken Michaels?" Jim asked.

"Yes, of course," Christie replied, wondering why Jim was bringing up their friend who had died of cancer a year and a half before.

"Remember when we went to see him and Sandy that time, after the doctors told him the cancer had spread?"

"Yes."

"Something he said to me that day really stuck with me. He said, 'You know, I could still outlive you.' When I asked him what he meant, he told me, 'A semi could take you out when you're driving home on the LIE tonight. No one knows how much time he has. The only difference between you and me is I have a better idea.'"

Jim paused, resting his chin on his hands, trying to think of the best way to explain himself. Then he continued, "I've thought about that a lot, especially since I got shot. Because Ken was right. Anyone's time could be up, any day. When I walk out the door in the morning, I can't promise you I'll come home that night. But you can't promise that, either."

"But, Jimmy – " Christie began.

He cut her off. "The point isn't how much time you have. It's how you spend that time. If you're telling me I have to give up who I am, it's not worth it. Not to me it isn't. Not after everything else I've had to give up."

"I'm not asking you to give up anything, Jimmy."

"Then what – ?"

"I just . . . don't want to be afraid for you anymore."

"I know." Jim reached out to Christie and held her. She rested her head on his shoulder as he stroked her hair. She had known all along that she couldn't ask Jim to give up being a cop. It was too great a sacrifice. But she also knew she couldn't simply banish her fear. She would have to find a way to live with it. Somehow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Episode 23: "Drive-by Shooting"**

_Day Two_

_Scene One_

"Hey, Jim!" Tom called when he saw Jim emerge from the subway. "Wait up, I'll walk with you."

Jim ordered Hank to stop. Tom caught up with him, and they walked together toward the station two blocks away. After they walked a block, Jim heard loud voices coming from the direction of the precinct. 'What's that?" he asked Tom.

"Damn," Tom replied, "it looks like some sort of demonstration."

"What sort?"

"I'm not sure. I can't tell from here."

As they got closer, it became apparent what type of demonstration was in progress. About a hundred people – along with several camera crews – had gathered across the street from the 8th Precinct. The demonstrators were carrying signs and chanting, "Keep us safe! No more gangs!" Some of the signs read, "R.I.P. Paul Glover," while others simply had the word "gangs" in a circle with a red slash across it, and still others read, "Safe Streets Now!" A man with a bullhorn was leading the chants, but when he saw Jim and Tom approaching, he silenced the demonstrators and spoke.

"If you've ever wondered whether the NYPD is committed to keeping this community safe, there's your answer, my friends," he said, pointing at Jim and Tom. The cameras turned in their direction, zooming in on Jim. "Where do they assign their only blind officer? Right here, in this community. Does anyone really believe _he_ can keep us safe?"

Jim clenched his jaw but said nothing. "Idiot," Tom muttered under his breath. Two of the reporters started in their direction, but Tom stopped them with a look and an emphatic shake of his head. Keeping his voice low, so only Jim could hear him, he said, "We're almost there." Jim nodded. As they reached the building and went inside, the chanting began again.

Tom broke the silence as they rode the elevator to the second-floor squad room. "I should tell the boss about – you know, what that guy said. He needs to know."

Jim's jaw tightened again, but he simply nodded and answered, "Yeah."

Tom looked over at Jim – noticing his bowed head, the dark glasses hiding his sightless eyes, and his left hand tightly gripping Hank's harness. Something about the way Jim stood quietly next to him reminded Tom forcefully that Jim was blind. In the months since Jim had joined the squad, Tom had become so accustomed to Jim's blindness that he rarely gave it a second thought. He didn't forget about it, exactly – it just wasn't uppermost in his mind any more. But now, as he looked at Jim, Tom found himself wondering – not for the first time – how Jim could ever have adapted to a life without sight. He shifted uncomfortably and looked away, reflecting that Marty wasn't the only one who couldn't imagine what that was like.

When the elevator reached the second floor, Jim headed toward the locker room, while Tom went directly to Lt. Fisk's office. He knocked on the door and was told to enter.

"Morning," Fisk greeted him. "What's up?"

"You notice the demonstration out there?" Tom asked, gesturing to the windows overlooking the street.

"Yeah," Fisk replied, "they're gonna look pretty foolish when it comes out that Glover was dealing drugs. So what did you want to tell me?"

"Well, I, uh, met up with Jim on the way to the precinct, and the guy with the bullhorn spotted him when we were walking past. So did the reporters. The guy told the crowd that Jim working here meant the Department didn't care about keeping the neighborhood safe."

"Damn," Fisk muttered.

"Yeah," Tom replied as he turned to leave.

"Tom?" The detective stopped and looked back at his boss. "Thanks for the heads-up." Fisk frowned and reached for the phone to call the Chief of Detectives.

_Scene Two_

Karen spotted Sonny standing on the corner. "There he is," she told Jim as she brought the car to a stop at the curb.

Jim rolled down his window. "Get in," he told Sonny, gesturing toward the car's rear door.

"Sorry, pooch," Sonny told Hank as he got into the car. Hank gave a little whine of protest but scooted across the back seat, away from Sonny.

Jim turned around in his seat. "Hey, watch the dog," he snapped.

"He's OK, I didn't do nothing," Sonny protested.

After Karen pulled away from the curb, Jim asked, "What've you got?"

"I talked to a guy, he heard a kid talking about being in on a drive-by. He was bragging he was the one who spotted the dude who got shot."

"What else?" Jim demanded.

"The kid also said that would show people not to try and move in on Rivington's turf."

"This kid have a name?"

"Antonio Washington. My guy says he's a cousin of Marcus Johnson," Sonny replied, naming one of the leaders of the Rivington Street gang. "Not jumped in yet," Sonny continued, "but I heard Marcus took him along on the drive-by as, like, a test – you know, to see if he'd come through for the gang."

"Where can we find this Antonio?" Karen asked.

"He lives in one of the projects over on D, but he mostly hangs out at the playground at Hamilton Fish Park. He's only 15, but he don't go to school most of the time."

"Did your guy happen to mention who else was in on the drive-by?" Jim asked.

"Nope."

"Did you get anything else?"

"Unh-uh."

"OK."

"You can drop me at the corner here," Sonny told Karen, who pulled over and stopped to let him out.

"Thanks," Jim told Sonny as he got out of the car. "Let me know if you hear anything else."

_Scene Three_

Lt. Fisk spotted Jim and Karen returning to the squad. "Jim," he called from his office door, "My office, please."

Jim turned toward Fisk's office. "Close the door," the lieutenant directed. After Jim complied, he stepped forward, reaching out to find the back of one of the office chairs, and stood, waiting for Fisk to continue.

"I got a call from DCPI. They're putting out a statement about the demonstration this morning – about what the guy said about you. There's going to be a news conference in about an hour. They'd like you to be there."

Jim grimaced and shook his head. "No, thanks."

"You sure about that? This isn't going to make you any friends at One PP."

"I'm not going to have any friends there anyway," Jim said flatly. "Sorry, boss, but I'm not letting the brass use me as a poster boy so they can look good."

Fisk sighed in resignation. "All right."

"You can always tell them I'm working the case, and you can't spare me," Jim suggested.

Fisk allowed himself a small grin. "OK."

Jim turned to leave, then stopped. "Boss?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks. I know you didn't volunteer for this."

"Neither did you," Fisk told him. He paused, pursing his lips in thought, then continued, "Did Sonny have anything for you?"

"Yes, he did. We need to talk to a kid name of Antonio Washington."

"OK. Let's get everyone in here so we're all up to speed."

_Scene Four_

A uniformed officer escorted Antonio into the squad room. "Interview room two," Karen directed him, indicating the room.

Jim stood up and started toward the interview room. Karen stopped him with a hand to his chest. "What?" Jim asked.

"He looks awfully young," she explained. "I know Sonny said he was 15, but he's small for his age. Really, he looks like he's only about 13. And I bet he has no clue what he's facing."

"Yeah," Jim agreed, frowning, "but he's about to find out. Let's go."

Jim followed Karen into the interview room. He stood next to the windows while Karen introduced herself and Jim. Unable to hide his curiosity, Antonio stared at Jim, then blurted out, "Hey, man, you a real cop?"

Jim ignored him, but Karen snapped, "Watch your mouth, kid." Antonio gave her an insolent look but kept his mouth shut.

Karen sat down at the table, across from Antonio. After she _Mirandized_ him, she began, "So, Antonio, do you know why we want to talk to you?"

"Unh-uh. Maybe 'cause I ain't been in school?"

"Don't try and get cute with us," Karen cautioned him.

"Don't know nothin' about – uh, nothin'," he insisted.

Karen pretended not to notice his slip. "Marcus Johnson – he's your cousin, right?"

"Yeah, he my cuz, so what?" Antonio folded his arms and sat back in his chair, looking defiant.

"He's your real cousin, not just your 'cuz,' right?"

"Uh-huh."

"See him lately?"

"I guess."

"You guess?" Karen asked, rolling her eyes. "So when do you guess you saw him? Yesterday morning, maybe?"

"Maybe."

Jim spoke up from his spot next to the windows. "You think this is some kind of game, Antonio?" he demanded harshly.

"Dunno," Antonio mumbled.

"Look at me," Jim ordered. "And stop mumbling."

Antonio stared at Jim with a mixture of surprise and fear.

"You got yourself in some serious shit," Jim told him. "Do you even know what you're looking at?"

"No, you gonna tell me?"

"You think you're gonna get a slap on the wrist, maybe get sent to juvie for a while?" Jim didn't wait for Antonio to answer. "We didn't bring you in here for tagging, you know. You're an accomplice in a murder. And you're fifteen, you can be convicted of second degree murder. You know what that means?"

"No."

"Life in prison."

"No," Antonio whispered. He looked at Karen pleadingly, seeking reassurance, but she merely nodded to confirm what Jim had said, then added, "Yes," for Jim's benefit.

"We can help you, Antonio," Jim said, walking toward the table. "But you gotta help yourself."

"I ain't no rat, man," Antonio asserted.

Jim sat on the table next to Antonio and took off his dark glasses. "You like girls, Antonio?" he asked confidingly.

"Yeah, guess so," Antonio replied warily.

"No girls in prison," Jim pointed out. "You know who the girl is in prison?"

"You jus' said there ain't none," Antonio said, looking puzzled.

"No, Antonio, if you go to prison, _you'll_ be the girl."

Antonio slumped down in his chair, his adolescent bravado gone. Karen knew what Jim was doing, but she still felt a little sick, because Jim was right. Antonio didn't know he wouldn't be sent to an adult prison right away if he was convicted, but he'd end up there soon enough. And the prisons for "youthful offenders" weren't any better. She didn't want to think about what would happen to Antonio in prison. Even his gang connections wouldn't protect him there.

"So, Antonio," Jim continued, "do we understand each other?'

"Yeah."

"Let's talk about what happened yesterday morning."

"I ain't no rat," Antonio repeated.

"I know," Jim assured him. "We already know what happened. You just need to say 'yes' or 'no.' That way, you won't be ratting anyone out. OK?"

"I guess," Antonio answered doubtfully.

Jim walked around the table and sat down across from Antonio. "Your cousin Marcus, he claims Rivington, right?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"And his brother Rip – the one who got shot a few months back – and your uncle, and your big brother James – they all claim Rivington, too?"

"Yeah."

"How 'bout you, Antonio, you claim Rivington?"

"No, man, I ain't in no gang," Antonio asserted.

"But you'd like to be, right?"

"Maybe," Antonio conceded.

"So how'd Marcus find out Paul Glover – the dude who got shot – was dealing on Rivington's turf?"

"Me," Antonio mumbled.

"He tried to sell to you and your friends, was that it?"

"Yeah."

"You knew Marcus wouldn't like that. So you told him."

"Yeah."

"But Marcus needed you to finger the guy, so you went along on the drive-by, right?"

Antonio nodded. "Uh-huh."

"You thought that was pretty cool, huh, getting to go along with the big boys? Marcus said you needed to prove yourself first, if you wanted to hang with them, right?"

"I guess," Antonio mumbled.

"So, yesterday morning, you're just cruising around and you get lucky and spot him?"

"Uhn-huh. I knew where he lived," Antonio replied. "I followed him home from the park one day. He never spotted me, neither," he added boastfully.

"Who was with you and Marcus on the drive-by?" Jim asked.

"J-Dog."

"He have a real name?"

"Dunno. I jus' know him as J-Dog."

"He was the driver, right?"

"Yeah."

"And Marcus was the shooter?"

Antonio hesitated, looking down at the table. "Shit," he mumbled.

"You want to spend the rest of your life in prison?" Jim demanded.

"I didn't do nothin'," Antonio wailed.

"You fingered the guy, and now he's dead. That's not 'nothing,' Antonio. Marcus was the shooter, right? I'm not gonna ask you again."

"Yeah," Antonio whispered.

Karen spoke up. "We done here?"

Jim nodded. "Yeah." He stood and followed Karen out of the interview room, closing the door behind him.

After they were back at their desks, Karen looked at Jim thoughtfully, then said, "You leaned on Antonio pretty hard in there."

He turned to face her. "You got a problem with that?"

"I don't know. I mean, he's just a kid. And he looks so young. Maybe, if you could see him . . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"What?" Jim bristled. "You think I would've eased up on him if I could see him? Is that what you're saying?" He shook his head. "You're wrong. We needed to get him to give up the shooter. That was the only way."

"I guess," she replied doubtfully. "But did we really need to do this – for someone who sold drugs to kids?"

"You don't want to go there," Jim said flatly. "Glover's dead. It's our job to collar the guys who made him dead. End of story."

"You're right," she conceded, "I just wonder how long Antonio's gonna last after Marcus finds out he gave him up."

"Not our problem," Jim declared. "The kid's screwed either way. How long d'you think he'd last in prison? This way, if he makes a deal, at least he's got a chance."

"Not much of one."

"Not our problem," Jim repeated. He ended the conversation with a wave of his hand and reached for his earpiece.

Karen looked at her partner thoughtfully for a moment, then started to type up her report.

_Scene Five_

Jim took off his earpiece and slapped his thigh to signal Hank it was time for his walk. As they headed out of the squad, Tom stood up and asked, "Hey, Jim, can I walk with you?"

"Yeah, sure," Jim replied guardedly, wondering what was on Tom's mind.

They rode down in the elevator and walked out of the precinct in silence. After they crossed the street, Tom spoke up. "I heard the boss caught some flak from the brass because you wouldn't go to that press conference."

"He knows I have my reasons," Jim said stiffly.

"He's run a lot of interference for you, since you've been here."

"I know."

"So what's the problem?"

Jim walked on for a moment, thinking. Then he ordered Hank to stop and turned to face Tom. "If you think I'm going to kiss the asses of those bastards at One PP, you better think again," he snapped.

Tom was taken aback. "Uh – " he began.

Jim didn't seem to hear him. "You don't know what it was like, when I was trying to get reinstated," he continued. "They fought me every step of the way, until the press got hold of the story. And they fought dirty. Now they want to trot me out for some photo op so I can make them look good? No way."

"But I thought the bad blood was all in the past."

"Get real, Tom. They don't want me on the job. They never will. The boss knows that, even if you don't." He shook his head, scowling, then ordered Hank forward and started back toward the precinct.

Shocked by Jim's uncharacteristic outburst, Tom stood on the sidewalk and watched him walk away with Hank. Jim was right, he realized. Jim's fight for reinstatement had been nasty, and the brass had long memories. They wouldn't forget that he had taken them on and won, then proved them wrong by showing he could still do the job. It didn't matter how many cases Jim cleared. There would always be people in the Department who would never accept that he was back on the job. Frowning, Tom followed Jim back to the squad.

_Scene Six_

Fisk emerged from his office. "Patrol just picked up Marcus Johnson. They're bringing him in. Make sure he doesn't see Antonio," he ordered.

"You got it, boss," Karen replied.

"Marty, Tom, you take it," Fisk ordered.

"OK, boss," Marty answered, exchanging looks with Tom.

When the uniformed officer arrived with Marcus, Tom and Marty rose from their desks and followed him into the interview room.

"Yo, cuz," Marcus greeted Tom.

Tom glowered. "I'm not your 'cuz'," he responded. "It's 'Detective Selway' to you."

"Whatever," Marcus responded nonchalantly.

Marty sat at the table opposite Marcus and briefly studied the man sitting across from him. Marcus sat back in his chair, his arms folded, pointedly ignoring Marty's scrutiny. Marcus's rap sheet gave his age as 28, but like his cousin, he looked several years younger than his actual age. Clean-shaven, his hair in neat cornrows, and dressed in jeans and a gray "hoodie," he didn't seem to fit the gangbanger stereotype. But the three teardrop tattoos below one eye left no doubt about how he had attained a position of leadership in the gang. Marty _Mirandized_ him, then began. "You want to tell us what happened yesterday morning?"

"Nothin'."

"The drive-by you did on Paul Glover – you call that nothing?"

"Paul Glover? Who that?"

"Don't play dumb," Marty cautioned him. "We got a witness says you were the shooter."

"Tonio," Marcus muttered under his breath. "That little shit."

"Tonio?" Marty asked. "Who's that?"

Marcus gave him a surprised look. "My little cuz."

"How little?"

"Fifteen."

Marty turned to Tom. "So maybe we should talk to this Tonio, you think?"

"Yeah," Tom agreed.

"So, Marcus," Marty said, "you want us to go grab up your little cuz? You think he can handle it if we lean on him?"

Marcus glared across the table at Marty. When he didn't say anything, Marty turned back to Tom. "Let's go pick up this Tonio." He started to walk toward the door.

Tom followed him, then turned back toward Marcus. "You sure about this?" he asked. "You want your little cuz to get a snitch jacket? How long's he gonna last if he does?"

Marcus drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "Fuck," he muttered.

Tom looked at him, frowning. "This is your last chance," he told Marcus. "And there's something else you oughta think about. The people here in the community are pretty worked up about this homicide. They'll probably get the DA to go for the death penalty. You want to keep that from happening, you need to cooperate." He and Marty started toward the door again.

Marcus's face contorted, betraying his indecision, as he watched them walk away. Just as Marty reached for the doorknob, he called out, "Wait!" Marty and Tom stopped and looked back at him. He slumped in his chair, looking defeated, "What you wanna know?" he asked.

A half hour later, Marty and Tom left the interview room with Marcus's written statement. "Good work," Fisk told them.

"Thanks, boss," Tom replied. "We'll take him to Central Booking. What about Tonio?"

"He's going to Bridges for now," Fisk said. "The DA'll have to decide whether to charge him as an adult."

After Marty and Tom left with Marcus and Fisk went back into his office, Karen turned to Jim. "So what happens to Antonio now?"

"You heard the boss, it's up to the DA."

"Do you think they'll charge him as an adult?"

Jim shrugged. "Probably not. He wasn't the shooter, and he gave up Marcus, so – "

"At least Marcus went for it."

"Yeah." Jim rested his chin on his hands for a moment, thinking, then turned to face his partner. "Listen, Karen, I'm just as glad as you are that Marcus went for it."

"But if he hadn't?"

"Then we'd have done what we had to do."

Karen frowned. "You'd have told him Antonio gave him up?"

"Yes," Jim replied firmly. "You don't think Glover was Marcus's first homicide, do you?"

"I don't know."

"Well, how many teardrop tattoos does he have?" Jim asked.

"I didn't notice."

"I'll bet he has 'em – more than one."

"You're right, I guess. I just – "

Jim interrupted her. "Look, Antonio bought a little time today, that's all. How long d'you think it'll be before he gets jumped in and takes Marcus's place? Stick around, I guarantee we'll collar him for another drive-by – but next time, he'll be the shooter."

"I know. But I still don't like it."

"Neither do I," Jim assured her, "but that's how it is."

Karen studied her partner for a moment, then turned off her computer and put on her coat. "See you tomorrow," she said.

"Yeah. Good night," Jim answered absently. As Karen walked out of the squad room, Jim was still sitting at his desk, scratching Hank's ears and looking thoughtful.


End file.
